


Fantasies

by fastestmanalive



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, blow job fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:33:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fastestmanalive/pseuds/fastestmanalive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contrary to popular belief, Barry isn't obsessed with the Vigilante.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fantasies

**Author's Note:**

> So I was rewatching The Scientist and Three Ghosts (i.e. Arrow 2x08/09), and Barry is _obsessed_ with the Arrow. And a puppy.   
>  This happened. Sorry.   
> (I'm not sure about the rating, please tell me if it needs to be changed!)

Contrary to popular belief, Barry isn't obsessed with the Vigilante. He's _not_. He's just fascinated by what he'd doing – catching the bad guys, saving the innocent. The sort of thing Barry wishes he were capable of doing, too. But, alas, he's just some guy who likes physics and chemistry and comic books a little too much. So yeah, of course he jumps at the chance to go to Starling City to meet a real-life superhero – or at least get close to him.

 

His encounter with the infamous Oliver Queen goes... sub-par, to put it mildly. He can practically feel the waves of disapproval and hatred rolling off of him. Barry doesn't get what he's done wrong; _nothing_ , Felicity assures him when they're alone and smiles at him prettily.

_Is this what it feels like when someone likes you back?_ he can't stop himself from wondering. Still, he mostly talks about the Vigilante, too shy to make a move (and how _does_ one make a move on someone, anyway? God, he's so bad at this). He doesn't understand why Felicity seems so disinterested in the topic – it must be _exciting_ for Starling City to have their very own hero; if Barry lived here, he wouldn't shut up about it, brag to everyone he knew... Okay, that's maybe taking it a bit too far, but Barry's honestly just thrilled to be here.

So yeah, when Felicity mentions the Vigilante, he can't help but tell her all his theories – they're pretty well thought out, he admits, because he's been thinking about it all a lot.

...If he's honest with himself, yes, he can see why people call him obsessed. Maybe he is. Just a bit.

 

Barry isn't blind. He firmly believes that true love stems from a deep emotional connection, but he can also appreciate physical beauty. For example, Iris is pretty. Felicity is lovely. The Vigilante is... _hot_.

He flushes at the thought, grateful that he's alone in his hotel room.

Of course he's seen photos of the Vigilante – they're all over the internet. The guy has... nice muscles. _Really_ nice muscles. A broad chest. Bulging biceps – they have to be the size of _bowling balls_ , if Barry's judgement is correct. A wonderful posterior – truly spectacular, really, all wrapped up in the tightest pants imaginable, the leather clinging to his firm buttocks-

Barry swears when he feels his cock stir. He looks at his watch – he still has an hour before he needs to leave – and calmly walks over to the bed. He pulls off his sweater, toes off his shoes and lies down, the image of the Vigilante's leather-clad form burnt into his retinae. He takes a deep breath and works the buttons of his shirt open slowly, one by one, gasping when the cold tips of his fingers brush against the overheated skin. When he reaches the bottom, he sits up and pulls it off with shaking hands. He feels almost giddy, a bit naughty maybe, about what he means to do; but, he reminds himself, the Vigilante doesn't know what he's doing, doesn't know _him_. And this isn't hurting anyone, anyway.

Barry lies back down and sighs; the crisp sheets feel _wonderful_ against his naked back, all cool and soft. He closes his eyes and lays a hand on his belly, caressing the warm flesh around his navel. He breathes in – _his hand wanders lower, fingertips stroking the skin right above his waistband_ – and out – _his other hand is on his chest, almost touching his nipple but not quite_.

He wonders what would happen if the Vigilante was here. Barry sighs and opens the fly of his jeans. He imagines eyes boring into him – brown? green? blue? It doesn't matter. They're dark with lust, intense, intently watching Barry's every move. They're hidden by his hood, dark shadows on his face, but Barry can feel their burning gaze on him. He lifts his hips from the mattress, working his jeans down to his knees. He's painfully hard; his erection is straining against the thin cotton of his boxer briefs. Phantom hands are on his calves, pressing his legs into the blanket. Barry moans and palms himself through his underwear; he's so turned on, he can barely breathe.

He has no idea what the Vigilante's voice sounds like, but he imagines it's deep, low, sultry; he can almost hear the soft, _“Take it off?”_ right before he pushes his briefs down. He brings his hand up to his face, licks the palm, squirming. The phantom hands are back, holding his hips still. He whines and finally wraps his hand around his dick.

Barry grunts, hips trying to push up but he doesn't let them. He imagines the Vigilante giving him a quick smirk – _almost predatory, the flash of white teeth on pink lips, the flick of tongue_ – before leaning down and wrapping his lips around the head of his cock.

Barry can't hold back a moan; darkened eyes gleaming up at him under the hood, almost like they're speaking to him, _“Is that it? Is that what you want?”_ Velvet heat surrounds him and he can't breathe; the Vigilante sinks lower, until his nose is pressed to Barry's lower abdomen. He tightens his hand around himself, breathing ragged; when the Vigilante starts to bob his head slowly, Barry thrusts his hips up, his chest heaving. Blindly, he reaches out his hand to lay it on the hood, to fist the soft material because he needs to hold on to _something_ , but instead he gets short-cropped hair and blue eyes darkened with something he doesn't dare name.

“Ol- Oliv-” He cuts himself off, doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to admit it. He quickens his pace, gasps something unintelligible; Oliver smirks up at him, eyes wide and mischievous, and keeps up, goes faster, then slower until Barry can't handle the teasing anymore and arches his hips up. Oliver takes it in stride, not choking, not pulling off. With his free hand, he cups Barry's balls and rolls them carefully; Barry turns his head and bites into the pillow; he's on fire, his body tense and wrought tight, and he wants nothing more than come.

“Ple- _Please_ ,” he chokes out, planting his feet flat on the mattress and lifting his hips again. Oliver rolls his eyes – and of course he's fed up with his need to come, ugh, Barry wants to punch him in his stupid pretty face – but bobs his head faster anyway, his tongue wrapped around the thickness of his cock. Barry almost cries with want; he's so _close_ , he's been close for so long, he wants to _come_. Oliver lets go of his balls and brings his hand to his own groin – _that was me_ , Barry thinks, delirious, _he's turned on because of_ me. He can't move anymore, he's too tense, too on-the-edge, only his hips and his hand are still moving, perfectly in sync with Oliver's mouth.

At this point, it doesn't really take much. He flicks his nipples a couple of times – Oliver wouldn't neglect them like he did, Barry's sure – and fucks up into his hand once, twice, and he's coming so hard he almost blacks out.

It takes a couple of minutes for him to calm down, to get his breathing back to normal. The mess on his torso already starts to feel gross; luckily, there's a box of tissues on the nightstand so he grabs a few, hands still shaking, and cleans up as best as he can.

After a while he starts feeling ridiculous; he's half-naked in a bed that isn't his own, jeans and briefs pulled down to his knees, stomach sticky with his own bodily fluids. If someone could see him now...

He gets up and walks to the bathroom, almost falling on his ass – it's not easy to walk with your trousers around your knees. He takes a quick shower, careful  _not_ to think about what he just did because that could end in another round and, well, he doesn't want to be late. Again.

 

Barry's also careful not to think about it when he gets to Felicity's party and Oliver Queen is there. Sure, she works for Queen Consolidated, and the company belongs to him, but still. He dances with Felicity to keep his mind off it, only occasionally sneaking glances at Oliver.

 

He's leaving that night. He knows it was too good to be true; he just hopes he's not in too much trouble.

He misses train – of course he does – and is forced to wait.

A sudden, sharp prick in his neck is the last thing Barry remembers before he passes out.

 

When Barry wakes up, he needs a moment to focus. He feels a bit dizzy; probably the aftermath of a mild tranquilliser.

The first thing he notices are boots. Green leather boots. Leather-clad calves stick out of them; muscly thighs; a thick torso; a-

Oliver?

Or... The Vigilante?

Barry frowns. He's probably still unconscious, or the tranquilliser was stronger than he thought and he was hallucinating, or-

“Can you save my friend?”

His body reacts faster than his brain and before he fully realises what he's doing, he's pumping rat poison into Oliver Queen's... the Vigilante's?... veins. He prays to whatever's out there that his knowledge of the human body and, more importantly, his _hunch_ is enough to save Oliver. The Vigilante. _Whatever._

 


End file.
